Once the richest nation per capita in the world, Venezuela is undergoing a mass exodus, as its citizens escape President Nicolás Maduro’s authoritative regime and a deep socio-economic crisis. For many, their destination is Orlando.

Once the richest nation per capita in the world, Venezuela is undergoing a mass exodus, as its citizens escape President Nicolás Maduro’s authoritative regime and a deep socio-economic crisis. For many, their destination is Orlando.

Vanessa Castañeda and her family first moved to Orlando in January 2016, a few months after three policemen stopped their 1998 Chevrolet Silverado as they returned from the beach near their hometown in San Diego, Venezuela.The cops held Castañeda and her 3-year-old daughter at gunpoint while her husband took cash out of an ATM to pay them off.

Back in Venezuela, they tried to lay low. Castañeda’s husband, Luis Roa, 33, sold the Silverado, which had a custom paint job that made it easy for the country’s federal police to spot.For years, the couple had used the truck to ferry people and supplies toprotests against the government of Nicolás Maduro, under which food, water and medicine have become scarce and crime is rampant.

But not a year went by before police again stopped — andbriefly detained — Castañeda, 33, and their daughter.

We're making this huge sacrifice because we're scared.

Vanessa Castañeda on seeking asylum in the U.S.

In August 2017, the family was back in Orlando, joining the 28,000 Venezuelans who petitioned for asylum in the U.S. within the past year. Once the richest nation per capita in the world, Venezuela is undergoing a mass exodus as its citizens escape Maduro’s authoritative regime and a deep socioeconomic crisis.

For many, their destination is Orlando. As of 2016, at least 33,000 Venezuelans had chosen to call Central Florida their new home, a number that doubled since 2010, according to the latest Census estimates. That figure doesn’t include Venezuelans who fled as violent protests erupted across their country last summer — many of whom have since been caught off-guard by a U.S. immigration policy change announced last January.

The change means the most recent applications are reviewed first, which gives asylum-seekers less time to prepare and save money before their interview with an immigration agent.

The adjustment disproportionately affects Venezuelans, who now lead the list of nations with the most citizens seeking refuge through the kind of asylum granted to foreigners who enter the United States legally, known as affirmative asylum.

"We're making this huge sacrifice because we're scared,” Castañeda said. “We’re scared something happens to me or to my husband, and my daughter is left to fend for herself or if something happens to her."

Finding community in Orlando

While Castañeda awaits her fate, she has found solace and hope in her neighbors, many of whom are also from Venezuela.

Castañeda and her husband rent a one-bedroom apartment near the intersection of Central Florida Parkway and John Young Parkway. It is a perfect fit: There’s an elementary school across the street and applicants don’t need a Social Security number.

Luisana Roa, Castañeda’s 5-year-old daughter, sleeps in a small den, where she also keeps her toys. Sometimes, her mom said, she cries herself to sleep because she misses her grandmothers. During the day, neighbor Susana Ballesteros fills the void.

Luisana calls her “grandma” — as does every other child at the apartment complex.

“Maybe I'm here to give all these kids the grandmotherly love they can't have right now – everyone from the kids to the adults,” said Ballesteros, who lives a few buildings away from Castañeda.

Ballesteros, a 61-year-old retired college professor, came to Orlando in June 2017. A vocal critic of the government throughout her years working at the Department of Education in Venezuela, she said she feared persecution. She filed for asylum in December, and it was approved in June.

Ballesteros, Castañeda and other recent Venezuelan newcomers living in the same neighborhood planned a Halloween party for the children last year, watched FIFA World Cup games together on Sundays, and celebrate each others’ birthdays at the park.

Javier Rodriguez, a leasing agent at the complex, wouldn’t say how many renters there are Venezuelans, but one afternoon this month he had seven pending applications — all filled out by Venezuelan immigrants.

“I see community. I like to see that love," he said.

Immigration policy changes

In the past three and a half years, 31,510 ID cards or driver’s licenses have been issued in Central Florida to Venezuelans. Those figures include Venezuelans who made other stops before Central Florida, either in other states or a different country.

Those who enter the United Stateswith tourist visas can get a driver’s license or state ID card as long their six-month stay hasn’t expired. Most Venezuelans who plan to stay enter with tourist visas, as Castañeda’s family did twice, then file for asylum.

Five months after submitting an asylum petition, those waiting for an interview appointment can apply for a work permit, which enables them to legally work, drive and pay taxes in the meantime.

From December 2014 through the end of last year, asylum requests were reviewed in the order they were submitted — a process that could take years, giving applicants time to prepare and gather documentation.

But that recently changed, when U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services under the Trump administration began scheduling asylum interviews for the newest applications first, rather than the oldest.

In announcing its new policy, the agency said it hoped to discourage people who don’t have valid asylum claims from filing for it anyway, in order to gain a work permit and remain in the U.S. legally during the years it might take for their case to be decided.

Castañeda and her family were among the many unwittingly caught up in the policy change — which landed them in deportation proceedings. Had she known, Castañeda could have waited to file her asylum claim, which can be submitted up to a year after arrival.

"I wouldn't have done everything so quickly,” said Castañeda, whose husband submitted documents in Decemberto USCIS, hoping to convince the agency the family’s political beliefs would cause them to face persecution if they returned to Venezuela.

Castañeda and her husband thought they would have months and even yearsto collect evidence to back up their claim. But their interview was scheduled for last February, about 10 weeks after they applied.

"When I saw the letter read ‘interview,’ the world crumbled,” Castañeda said.

The couple hadn’t budgeted for transportation, lodging and a translator to interpret during the interview in Miami, where most asylum cases in Florida are processed. The only evidence the family managed to file was two sworn statements from neighbors and pictures of the Silverado.

Castañeda said that at the interview officials asked her husband questions like how many ’98 Chevrolet Silverados there were in San Diego, the city in northern Venezuela where they lived, when they were targeted by the national police.

He didn’t know the answer.

In May, USCIS officials referred the case to an immigration judge. Now, the family is awaiting a trial in January that will determine whether they can stay.

“The process in court is like doing the asylum [petition] again,” said Orlando immigration lawyer Janelle Falcón, who is preparing the family’s court case. “You’re already in deportation proceedings, but you have a second chance.”

Another family awaits fate

On a recent summer afternoon, Roxelis Rondón stepped into Ballesteros’ apartment, took off her flats and picked up a 6-week-old baby who was resting on the couch. As the neighbors chatted, Rondón changed the baby’s diaper, as if it was that of her own child.

"My neighbors are the sisters that life gave me," Rondón said.

Rondón’s family was vacationing in Orlando in September when police citations for “financing terrorism” were dropped off at her house in Venezuela. For five years, she had been an activist for the opposition, she said — cooking for protesters, hiding them in her car and opening her house for shelter when the rallies got violent.

After the citations, the family decided to stay and seek refuge.

Rondón’s lifestyle changed dramatically. The once-confident woman is now scared about raising her kids in a new country, uncertain of what the future holds without her loved ones nearby.

"My husband and I, coming back home from Walmart, we cry in the car so the children won't see us," Rondón said.

Her relationship with money changed, too. Time she once spent planning lavish family vacations, she now spends clipping coupons for toiletries, which she sends to her mom and sister in Venezuela. She misses her mom, with whom she had breakfast every day before moving to Orlando.

“My voice is not strong enough some days to call her,” she said. “I tell her I was busy. That’s a lie; I was lying in bed, crying all day."

Rondón’s interview was in May. She’s now waiting for a response to arrive at her mailbox.

My neighbors are the sisters that life gave me

Venezuelan expatriate Roxelis Rondón on her new neighbors in Central Florida

In January, the agency was scheduling interview appointments for cases filed in June 2013, Falcón said.

Evidence to back up an asylum claim could take the form of documents, pictures, physical and psychological examinations, opinions of certified experts and witness testimonies, said Lesbia Moreno, a paralegal who works with Falcón.

Asylum-seekers can qualify to obtain a green card a year after their asylum approval and become naturalized American citizens five years after that.

Camila Silva, an Orlando immigration lawyer, said seven out of 10 of her Venezuelan clients hire her to pursue asylum.

“To get asylum, people need to show they suffered persecution in their countries or will be persecuted in their country for one of five reasons: for their race, religion, nationality, membership to a social group or political opinion,” Silva said.

“There’s still a number of people who are doing work visas or investor visas,” she said. “... But taking out money from Venezuela is harder by the minute, there’s more obstacles, more complications, and for those, you need the capital.”

‘It was a blessing’

On a recent Tuesday evening, residents gathered by the apartment complex’s pool for a Zumba class taught by Ballesteros. She hung up a Venezuelan flag and set up the speakers and bright lights. About 30 women and children showed up; their husbands were home resting after work.

Before the class started, Ballesteros gathered the children to tell them Luisana would lead the kids during the class.

With her abu — grandma — by her side, Luisana jumped, mimicked lifting weights and flipped her long straight hair to the rhythm of the music. She moved so fast, her small glittery Skechers were untraceable. All the kids followed her moves.

“My abu taught me this song today,” she said during a water break.

Ballesteros watched with pride. After the break, she stood behind her and kissed her forehead, thanking her for helping.

Luisana wore a headband with three flowers attached to it — yellow, blue and red, the colors of the Venezuelan flag; the Zumba songs were techno remixes of Venezuelan folklore music; the last one they danced to was about family.